It's Not All Songs and Football
by UndertheApfelBaum
Summary: US/UK, Prussia/Austria WW1 Trench AU Arthur Kirkland, a recovering officer from War Neurosis, returns to the front to find his regiment nearly all wiped out. Stuck in despair, he meets Alfred Jones, a fresh young soldier from the Commonwealth.


**AN: This has been playing about in my head for ages now, and I finally got the courage to put it up...I thought Rememberance Day would be really fitting, too... The historical notes are at the bottom, as well as a question, which I'll put in bold, in case you want to skip the jargon =)**

**Disclaimer: APH and its characters do not belong to me. At all. Sniff.

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_Does it matter?---those dreams from the pit?...  
You can drink and forget and be glad,  
And people won't say that you're mad;  
For they'll know that you've fought for your country  
And no one will worry a bit._

_**From 'Does it matter?' by Siegfried Sassoon**_

Arthur did not want to go back to the front; he hadn't yet recovered. That thought remained in his head even as the ferry departed, and he almost found himself longing for the crazed, haunting atmosphere of Craiglockhart that only two days ago he had been desperate to escape. Almost. Instead, he leant over the railings of the deck, letting the blood rush to his head and contemplating how _easy_ it would be just to let go, to fall, to drown, and how happy he could be if he did so. The ocean seemed to him to be a fitting place for his burial; like so many of the people he had met inside the hospital, he was stuck in limbo, and either side of the channel posed torture for him.

To his left, a loud, confident laughter shook him out of his reverie, and, raising his head slightly, he looked to see a group of new recruits, their faces clean and pure from lack of fighting, telling jokes and grinning wickedly, most likely thinking about the Germans they were going to 'defeat'. A sigh escaped Arthur's lips; these men had no idea what they were getting themselves into. He watched them for a while, beginning to pity their optimism, until one, a tall man with proud, young eyes, glanced in his direction and caught his own. Arthur felt his heart sink, knowing even before the welcoming smile and hand gesture that he was going to ask him to come over. His legs felt heavy as he trudged towards them, and despite their friendly beams, the best he could gather up was a tired and insincere twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"Cheer up, fellow! What's got you so down?" The man asked, clapping him on the back when he came within arm's reach, "You can't possibly be nervous, can you? Just think of the fun we're going to have! It's Baines, by the way." Arthur nearly choked at the crudeness of the statement, jerked out of his sympathy (he hardly remembered that he had held a similar attitude on his first trip out), and realised that they'd mistaken him for one of them; conscripted. He shook his head: was it not obvious that he had already experienced life in the trenches? But Baines took it as denial, and laughed merrily.

"That's the spirit! We'll get those Krauts, just you see…hold on, what's this?" Arthur followed the man's gaze to his pocket, wincing as he saw the white feather sticking out of the khaki flap. It had been given to him, one day in Edinburgh when he had managed to escape the confines of his uniform and what he thought of as the 'flashing blue badge'. A woman, yellow skinned from the munitions factories and reeking of bar smoke, had presented it to him with a spit and a glare of disdain, cursing as she walked away and drawing stares from all directions. His reaction, however, had been far stranger: the feather clenched tightly in his fist, he had felt himself tear up, and even as the people stared he had whispered a hoarse 'thank you', feeling as though he might treasure the symbol of cowardice for the rest of his life. Two weeks later, he had been sent back to France, and before he had even arrived he found himself in a similar position, the eyes of the new recruits boring into him, questioning; accusing. Refusing to be intimidated by them, he raised his hand to push the feather firmly back into his pocket, allowing himself a small smirk when he twisted his wrist to reveal the badge pinned onto his cuff flap. Baines instantly began to stutter, and the group fumbled a hasty salute, almost enough to make Arthur laugh. Disregarding the question, he waved a dismissive hand at the formality.

"Yes, I'm sure we will…at least, as much as we have done previously," he replied with a hint of irony that he knew they wouldn't see, "2nd Lieutenant Kirkland," he added, holding out his hand and watching as Baines took it tentatively, "It's good to meet you."

Suddenly all the bravado was gone from their faces, as though a light had been switched on, and they had noticed Arthur's haunted, shadowed eyes (which he was sure had once been emerald but now, whenever he got the chance to look in the mirror, just seemed sludge-trench-green) for the first time. The group separated slightly, gathering in a circle and sitting down, looking up at Arthur and reminding him somewhat of cadets around a campfire. Baines tugged at his sleeve with boyish innocence, and Arthur sat down with them, looking curious.

"You've been there before…" he began, uncertain and uncomfortable with revealing his worries. Arthur noted somewhere in the back of his mind that Baines' vowels had flattened slightly, with a hint of a Mancunian accent, and automatically registered him as a 'temporary gentleman', "What's…What's it like?" Arthur could see that the question was on everyone's mind, and he wished that they could have asked another soldier, who was on leave and hadn't been taken out of service for shell shock. Something in him, though desperately wanting to keep their morale and hopes high, compelled him to tell the truth. He sighed, running a hand through his messy, dirty blonde hair, and glanced away from them.

"It's unlike anything which you've been p-p-p-prepared for." He stammered, cursing as he noticed his symptoms beginning to reappear. It was those blasted _'p's_, he thought viciously. Dr Samuels had said that they were his mountain, "The p-p-people back home, the generals, they train you all wrong. There's no way to keep order in the trenches, and you have to rely on instincts. And there most certainly will be no cavalry charge." Looking back at the group, his breath caught at their frightened expressions, and sought for something that would turn it all around, "But you adap-t quickly, and after a while, you get used to it all. Just…make sure that you don't try to keep it all in. Otherwise you could end up like me." The last sentence was said with a bitter smile, and the men took their cue, laughing half heartedly. He noticed one at the back, a well built man with dark cropped hair, who was clutching the pocket of his uniform. He had seen that happen before, many times, and idly wondered whose picture it was he kept in there. But a gesture like that so soon was a bad sign, and Arthur knew, no matter how cruel the fact was, that he would last no longer than a few days on the front.

The men asked him a few more questions (How loud are the bombs? Is it true that the average officer only lasts three months?), all of them growing slowly more anxious, and, unable to lie or tell them any more, Arthur clapped his hands together in conclusion.

"The best thing to do is to spend the time that you can not thinking about it, in my opinion. Brooding by yourself can be bloody awful," he smiled slightly, producing a box from a pocket in his trousers, "Anyone for cards?"

The men welcomed the change of subject with vigour, and as Arthur began to deal, conversation turned quickly to England, and family and friends left behind. Arthur himself mostly listened, contributing only with 'uhm's and 'ah's and pausing to collect his winnings (for long hours in bomb shelters on the front lines had allowed him to perfect his playing skills, at least against amateurs). He found himself enjoying the game, and the cheerful banter, and, finally, he felt the longing which he had been aiming for: to see, and to look after, his own men. It had been so long since he left them, and he realised now that they were like his family, more than his own ever had been, except for maybe his brother, and that he truly _needed_ them. Three months was far too long to be away without some casualties occurring, and he knew that the regiment he came back to would be far from the one he had left behind, but just to reunite with a _few_ familiar faces, and to mourn over those which were lost, was a thought which could penetrate the shell shock.

A roughening in the ferry's movements alerted Arthur to the fact that they were arriving soon, and he gathered up his cards, throwing the men a cheery salute before going to collect his belongings. In spite of their fear, he knew that all of them, Baines in particular, would sing songs on their march to their billet town, and he felt an inner pride at their bravery, no matter how much of a stranger he was.

"Kirkland! You're back!" Arthur recognised the voice instantly, and beamed as he felt a hand grasp his own before he even saw the face, laughing as he was pulled into a sudden embrace.

"Carter! Oh, thank God you're alive!" he breathed, returning the hug and pulling back to get a good look at his old friend, scrutinising his tired brown eyes and hollow features. The smile he gave was genuine, though, and that was enough to reassure him. Carter nodded eagerly, making an obvious decision to inform Arthur of the casualties later.

"As soon as I heard you were coming back, I begged the CO to let me collect you. We're being billeted now, so you came at a great time, really. Is everything alright, now, then?" Carter's voice held concern, and he knew that he, at least, believed in shell shock, and wasn't going to mock him.

"Not quite," Arthur answered honestly, "But my three months had expired, and the Board wouldn't grant me any more leave because they thought I was lying. I'm p-probably the best I can be, anyway." Carter nodded solemnly, acknowledging his friend's determination and turning swiftly away, taking hold of Arthur's wrist and leading him to a car.

"I managed to get a private one, rather than a truck, just for you," he grinned devilishly, "There aren't many who're heading up in our direction anyway. After you, sir!" he added, feigning a bow and holding the passenger door open. Arthur laughed lightly before climbing in, delaying the moment when he would find out who had been lost a few moments longer. He had been so determined not to come back, he thought to himself as Carter chattered away, and yet, now that he was here, he felt at peace. Relaxing and laughing at his friend's jokes, he did his best to ignore the voice in his head that told him that maybe, the only reason he was at peace was because on that ferry, talking to those men whose futures he knew would be destroyed, he had made the decision to be killed in action.

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_Historical Notes: _

_Shell Shock, also known as war neurosis, was one of the most commonly suffered and ignored illnesses during WW1. Many people considered it to be a fake illness, made up by cowards, and a lot of the first soldiers who suffered it were shot for cowardice. The horrors in the trenches, in hospitals or which could come from any part of the war caused men to break down, and those who were recognised as having war neurosis were given three month's leave, to visit specific hospitals. _

_Craiglockhart War Hospital was located in Edinburgh, and was designed to cater only for those suffering from Shell Shock. It's one of the most famous, because Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon met there, and it had a relatively decent treatment of its patients (Electric Shock Therapy, as far as I know, was frowned upon there) The board assessed people after their leave, and generally, as much as possible, sent people straight back to the front._

_The Flashing Blue Badge was an armband wounded soldiers had to wear with their uniform when on leave. If you wore one, and didn't have anything amputated, or a cane, or a limp, particularly if you spent time in a Shell Shock Hospital Town, you were instantly recognised as being a 'loony'._

_The White Feather It was a custom of British women to give them to men who hadn't enlisted, signing them as a coward. It was supposed to be a terrible, shameful thing, pretty much equivalent to punching them in the face._

_I think that's everything. If you want to know more, ask =)_

**_The Question: I'm considering adding to this little 'extra' chapters, told from the other fronts, like the Eastern, and from the environments in the Russian Trenches, and the German/Prussian/Austrian side too...if you're interested in seeing that, please let me know!_**

**Leave a review...save a polar bear?**


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